"Then I'm not a leader." I slump back into Father's chair, my chair now, apparently. "Because I can't do what Alex did."
"Good." Aidan's response surprises me. "We don't need another Alex. We need you." He pauses at the door. "Get cleaned up. We only have 24 hours."
He leaves before I can argue, closing the door softly behind him.
I sit in the silence, in Father's chair, in the office where I found him hanging, where Alex killed him, where I’m somehow supposed to be the man to lead—the man who could lead us through a war. I look up at the rope marks on the ceiling beam. "You really fucked us all, didn't you?" I say to the ghost. "Even dead, you're still ruining everything." The ghost doesn't answer. It never does. I reach for the whiskey bottle Aidan left on the desk—a few hours until I meet my future wife. Better make them count.
CHAPTER TWO
Aoife
THE TEACUP SHATTERS against the stone fireplace, porcelain exploding into a thousand pieces that scatter across the Persian rug like snow.
"Aoife." My father's voice holds that warning tone, the one that says I'm being unreasonable, dramatic, childish.
I'm none of those things. I'm furious.
"You can't do this." My hands shake as I grip the back of the velvet armchair. The library feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in despite the vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the western hills of our estate.
"It's already done." Dillon O'Rourke, my father, head of the O'Rourke family, Elder of the West, doesn't even look up from the contract he's reviewing. His reading glasses sit low on hisnose, and the afternoon light catches the gray in his dark hair. He looks older than I remember. Tired.
Good. He should be tired after what he's just told me.
"You promised." My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. I'm twenty-six years old. I have two degrees, one from Trinity College Dublin and another from the Sorbonne. I speak four languages fluently. I've spent the last five years learning everything about our family's business, our territory, our allies, and enemies. I've sat in on strategy meetings, negotiated deals, analyzed financial reports.
And none of it matters.
Because I'm still just a daughter. Still just a bargaining chip.
"I promised I would never force you into something you didn't want," Father says, finally looking up at me. His blue eyes, the same shade as mine, hold something I can't quite read. Regret? Resignation? "But circumstances have changed."
"Circumstances." I laugh, and it sounds harsh even to my own ears. "You mean Alexander Murphy abandoned his throne, and now you need a new way to secure your alliance with the South."
"Watch your tone, Aoife."
"Or what?" I step around the chair, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor as I approach his desk. "You'll what, Father? Marry me off to someone else? Oh wait—you're already doing that."
The contract sits between us. I can see my name printed in neat black letters. Aoife Siobhan O'Rourke. And below it: William Murphy.
William fucking Murphy.
The wild one. The reckless one. The one who nearly died two years ago and has been spiraling ever since. The one everyone whispers about—how he drinks too much, fights too much, cares too little.
That's who my father wants me to marry.
"This isn't personal, Aoife. This is a strategy." Father removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. "The Russians are moving against us. All of us. The O'Reagans, the Murphys, even us. We need to present a united front, and the only way to do that…"
"Is to sacrifice your daughter." I finish his sentence, my nails digging into my palms. "How noble."
"You think I want this?" His voice rises, and I see a flash of the man who built our family's power. The man who went from nothing to everything through sheer force of will. "You think I want to send you into that den of vipers? The Murphy family is imploding. Their father is dead, murdered by his own son. Alexander has abandoned them. Jason's been exiled. And William…"
He stops himself, but I know what he was going to say.
"William is a disaster," I finish for him. "A drunk. An addict. A man who can't even keep himself alive, let alone lead a family through a war."
Father's silence is answer enough.
"Then why?" My throat tightens, the words scraping out. I lean forward, my hands flat on his desk to keep them from shaking. "Why would you tie me to a sinking ship?"
